‘You’re the expert. Do they put nail polish on these?’ Steed asked.
‘Some of them come with their nails tinted. Why?’
Detective Steed transferred the finger to his other hand, then turned the broken end to face Peregrine, exposing a splash of red.
‘I don’t think that’s nail polish, Detective Steed,’ she said.
‘No, Miss Fisher, I don’t either. I think that’s blood.’
Detective Steed bagged both the broken finger and the wig then ushered Peregrine from the storage room, up the dim stairwell and, finally, out into the fresh air. Once they were standing by the service entrance to Blair’s Emporium, he reached into an inner pocket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He took one before offering the pack to Peregrine.
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I don’t. They’re just a very handy excuse to loiter around doorways.’ Steed lit his cigarette then let his hand dangle, every inch the casual smoker.
Peregrine held up an arm to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight as she studied Detective Steed’s face.
‘What are we doing out here exactly?’ she finally asked.
‘Planning the next move while keeping away from what may be a primary crime scene. Although so many people have been in and out of that basement area since Florence … Anyway, it’s probably too late for forensics, even if the boss would allow it.’
‘What about one-armed Audrey in the lime green dress?’
‘Probably safest where she—it—is for now. Besides, if anything happened to Audrey …’ Steed grimaced. ‘I can’t believe I’m talking about an inanimate object like this! The point is, I don’t want to rattle Mr Knox before I talk to him again.’
Peregrine nodded. ‘Best give me the wig then.’ She held out her hand.
‘I’m not sure you should be getting involved. Two women have already been murdered.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m already involved! Anyway, if you’ve got Knox down at the station for questioning, I’ll be perfectly safe. Not only that, it’s actually the best time for me to find out about the wig: when he’s out of the way and won’t know I’m asking about it!’ Peregrine wiggled the fingers of her still-outstretched hand.
Detective Steed frowned and looked down at his smouldering cigarette.
‘Besides, we’ve already agreed that I have an advantage when it comes to fashion and style.’
Steed dropped the cigarette onto the cobbles and ground it out with the toe of his highly polished brown Oxford. He’d been keeping the paper bag containing the wig pressed beneath one arm and now, reluctantly, he pulled it out and handed it to Peregrine.
‘Just get the order details and that’s it. Nothing else. Call me at the station when you know something. In fact, call me regardless so I know you’re okay.’
Peregrine grinned. ‘Why, Detective Steed—I didn’t know you cared!’
‘Of course I care! Between chasing the killer and antagonising Inspector Sparrow, you’re a constant source of worry.’ Steed tried to sound light-hearted, but Peregrine could see tension in his eyes and the clench of his jaw. She put a reassuring hand on his arm.
‘All I’m going to do is talk shop and ask the ladies in the Blair’s hair salon for a peek at their sales records. It will be easy. Besides, you might be hot stuff when you come up against gun-toting crooks, but if you set one foot in that place, they’d eat you for breakfast! Believe me, those women are fierce.’
‘I’m sure I could manage …’
Peregrine laughed.
‘But in this instance I will step aside.’
Peregrine gave his arm one final pat then, with a spring in her step, she disappeared into the cool interior of Blair’s Emporium. Detective Steed checked his watch. There were more than four hours remaining before the store closed. Plenty of time for Peregrine to chat up the hairdressers and still be home by nightfall. Plenty of time for him to drag Lewis Knox down to the station and give him the third degree.
He settled his hat lower on his brow and followed Peregrine inside.
Peregrine stuck her head into the Blair’s hair salon several times throughout the afternoon, but each time all the chairs were taken, every dryer was humming, and the air was heavy with the scent of sharp chemicals mingled with sickly sweet hairspray. Finally, half an hour before closing, her persistence was rewarded. Only one client was still in the salon, sitting with her head under a dryer’s clear dome. Elsewhere in the salon, a couple of assistants were busy sweeping and tidying, while two other women—who looked to Peregrine like the senior stylists—were balancing the till. They all looked up when she entered, took in her Blair’s uniform and drab pigtails, and went back to what they were doing.
Peregrine pocketed her glasses, straightened her back and put a bit of pizzazz in her walk as she crossed to the desk.
‘Can I … help you?’ The older of the two women, her bleached hair teased and back-combed to within an inch of its life, arched one perfectly plucked brow.
Peregrine rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. ‘I must look a fright! I was almost too embarrassed to come in here with my hair all …’ She used the back of her hand to dismissively flip one of her pigtails then leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I’m trying to grow out the worst perm you’ve ever seen.’
Instantly the two women began to cluck. ‘Do you want me to take a look, honey?’ The blonde started around the desk, one hand already reaching for Peregrine’s head.
‘I don’t want to trouble you with that now; I’ll make an appointment for another time. There is something you can help me with, though.’ Peregrine pulled out the wig and arranged it over one hand.
‘Oh my stars!’ The hairdresser reeled back in horror.
‘I know.’ Peregrine shook her head. ‘One of the VIP customers up in ladieswear was complaining about the quality of the wig she’d bought. She was kicking up a real fuss, so I was given this and told to arrange a replacement. Now, I have a bit of salon experience—nowhere near your level of course—and it’s perfectly obvious the customer has tried to cut and style it herself. Not that I could say anything in front of her, of course!’
The blonde picked at a lock of acrylic hair disdainfully. ‘It looks as though she’s gone at it with a blunt knife!’
‘Or sheep shears!’ her associate chimed in, her voice high-pitched and nasal.
Peregrine grimaced. ‘Hideous! Anyway, I need to find out the details of the original order so we can get a replacement.’ She flipped the wig inside out.
The blonde frowned. ‘I don’t recognise that colour—do you, Shirl?’
‘Nuh-uh.’
‘It’s a Harrison’s and the style number is here.’ Peregrine turned the wig so the two women could see for themselves.
‘Hang on, honey’ The blonde moved back behind the desk and pulled out a ledger. ‘Order book,’ she explained. Opening the book to somewhere near the middle, she licked her index finger and began to leaf through it slowly. Peregrine leaned across from the other side of the desk, trying to read upside down.
‘I don’t see it, Shirl, do you?’ The blonde looked at her associate who was also leaning in, her long black hair brushing the pages.
‘Go one more time, Annette.’
Blonde Annette licked her finger again and carefully went back through the book, commenting on each entry.
‘No, no, that was for Mrs Broadbent … Nup … Ooh, that one was lovely … No … Nope …’ Finally she looked up at Peregrine. ‘It’s not here. No wonder Shirl and I didn’t recognise it! Either it was a special order put in by another department—in which case you’ll need to go to management to check—or the old cow bought it somewhere else and tried to return it there first. That shop told her what to do with her ruined wig and now she’s trying to pull a fast one. The ones with the most money are always the cheapest!’
On the other side of the salon, one of the associates turned off the dryer and
Annette’s words fell loudly in the sudden silence. Peregrine and the two women glanced cautiously at the customer, but the woman appeared oblivious.
Peregrine tucked the wig back in its paper bag. ‘I bet you’re right—it’s probably not even from Blair’s. But you should have seen this woman stack on a turn!’
‘Check with management, but I’m positive it didn’t come from us. We’re really strict about the order book. Everything in triplicate: one for the customer, one for us and one for management. If it’s not in here’—she tapped a long fingernail on the ledger—‘we never saw it. Now, shall we see what we can do with your hair?’
‘Next time. I’d better get up to management before everyone goes home. Thanks again, ladies!’
Peregrine hurried from the salon and across to the elevators. It was just after five, but hopefully Mrs Hirsch would still be at her desk.
In the interview room at Central Police Station, Detective Steed stood and placed his fists on the table, leaning forward, forcing Lewis Knox to shrink back into his chair.
‘Mr Knox, I know you’re hiding something. But because I’m a reasonable man, I’m going to give you one final chance. Tell me what happened the night Barbie Jones died.’
Knox shook his head miserably. ‘I took the van so me and Pansy could go out. That’s it.’
Steed slammed the palm of one hand down, hard, making Knox jump.
‘Rubbish! Is Miss Wing involved? Is that it? Were you in it together? Did she ask you to kill Barbie?’ Steed prowled backwards and forwards behind the table, his eyes never leaving the storeman’s face.
Sitting in the corner, Constable Connor waited, pencil poised, to record Knox’s answer in her impeccable Pitman shorthand.
Knox gaped at the detective like a goldfish before finally finding his voice. ‘No! Pansy would never ask … She has nothing to do with … I mean, neither of us has anything to do with …’ Knox buried his head in his hands.
‘With Barbie Jones’s murder? Is that what you can’t bring yourself to say? And Florence Astor?’ Steed had stopped his pacing and now he crouched down so he was at eye level with his suspect.
‘Look at me, Mr Knox. Lewis—can I call you Lewis? Look at me.’
Slowly, reluctantly, Knox raised his head until he was eye to eye with the detective.
‘Lewis, I’m going to be straight. Things are looking bad for you. We have the white van at Barbie’s place. We have you taking a van of the same description from Blair’s on the night of Barbie’s murder. You claim you were with Pansy Wing, but she’s not what we call an independent witness; as your girlfriend, she’s biased. Although that won’t stop me from dragging her in here and questioning her. So we have you in the van with no solid alibi. And we also have the mannequin—the one you referred to as Audrey—wearing a lime green dress—just like the dress Barbie was wearing when she was last seen alive.’ Steed stood up suddenly, making Knox yelp, and half turned his head towards Fleur Connor. ‘What else do we have, Constable?’
Fleur looked up from her notes. ‘Motive, sir,’ she said calmly.
‘That’s right. Thank you, Constable. Whether Miss Wing was involved in Barbie’s murder or not, she’s your motive. Getting Barbie out of the way means Miss Wing’s career takes off, doesn’t it, Lewis?’
Steed pulled out the battered metal chair from his side of the desk and sat down opposite Knox, folding his hands on the table. ‘Two murders, Mr Knox, and enough evidence to lock you away for a very long time. Is there anything you’d like to say before I formally arrest you? Before I get Miss Wing in here and tell her in great detail exactly what you’ve done?’
Lewis Knox groaned, dragged his hands through his hair, then pulled off his glasses and frantically rubbed his eyes.
Steed waited, leaning back in his chair as though he had all the time in the world.
From her place on the other side of the room, Constable Connor watched, hardly daring to breathe.
Knox put his glasses back on and mumbled something.
‘What was that?’ asked Steed, his voice suddenly gentle.
‘I needed the money,’ Knox whispered.
Steed sat up straight. ‘You killed Barbie Jones for money?’
‘No!’ Knox shouted, then his voice returned to a whisper. ‘No. I needed the money so I promised I wouldn’t tell …’ He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Promised who you wouldn’t tell what?’
‘I took the Blair’s van every Tuesday and Thursday evening and returned it the next morning, but it wasn’t for me.’
‘Then who?’
‘Mr Blair.’
‘Just to be clear, do you mean Terence Blair?’ Steed tried to keep his tone neutral but couldn’t entirely hide his surprise.
Knox nodded. ‘He was paying me—cash in hand—but part of the deal was that I couldn’t tell anyone; it had to be secret.’
Steed glanced across at Constable Connor but she just shrugged.
‘Perhaps you’d better explain from the beginning. Just what was Terence Blair paying you for?’
Knox drew in a long shuddering breath. ‘I’d take the van those nights and park a couple of streets away from the store. Then a bit later, sometimes ten minutes, sometimes half an hour, Mr Blair would come and we’d swap cars.’
‘What was he driving?’
‘A Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud! Two-tone!’ Knox smiled for a second. ‘Beautiful car.’
‘And then?’
‘I’d take his car for the night—keep it safe; he didn’t like leaving it out on the street—and next morning we’d swap again and I’d drive the van back to Blair’s.’ Knox’s voice was slowly gaining strength as he warmed to his story.
‘Why? What was the point of all this?’
Knox shot a glance at Constable Connor then lowered his voice again. ‘Mr Blair had a bit on the side.’
‘Pardon?’ said Steed.
Knox looked at the policewoman again and Steed rolled his eyes.
‘She’s an officer of the law. Constable Connor won’t be shocked or offended by anything you have to say.’
Fleur Connor nodded encouragingly.
Knox wet his lips. ‘Mr Blair was having an affair with Barbie Jones,’ he said loudly.
‘And the van?’ Steed prompted.
‘The Silver Cloud was too distinctive. He didn’t want anyone to find out about the mistress, so he came up with the idea of swapping his car for the van. He was paying me twenty quid a week and I needed the money—Pansy and me are saving—so …’ Knox shrugged. ‘Pansy didn’t know anything about it and I never thought …’
‘So on the night Barbie Jones was killed, the night before the bridal fashion parade, you swapped cars with Mr Blair as usual?’
‘Yes. Well, actually, no—not as usual.’
‘Explain,’ said Steed.
‘A few days earlier, when we were swapping cars, Mr Blair told me it wasn’t going to happen that night, on account of the bridal parade the next day. Then I got a note telling me to bring the van to the usual place, but just to leave it. Put the keys in the wheel arch, go home and collect it the next morning. Left me an extra tenner for my trouble.’
‘And that’s what you did?’
‘Yep. Caught the tram home, and in the morning the van was exactly where I’d left it.’ Knox shrugged. ‘I thought maybe Mr Blair had a change of heart about letting the likes of me cruise around in his Roller. Besides, who am I to judge? The van belongs to him anyway and he was paying good money for our little arrangement.’
‘And Miss Wing?’
‘Like I said, she didn’t know anything about any of it. She was just covering for me earlier when she told you we’d been out in the van. I swear!’
Steed folded his arms, tipped his head to one side and assessed Knox. The story was plausible, except for one thing. ‘What about the mannequin? Audrey?’
‘All I know is she went missing, and then she turned up dressed but without an arm.’
Steed stood suddenly, sending his chair screeching across the floor. ‘I’m going to have to verify your story,’ he said. ‘You can go. For now. But don’t try to leave town and don’t discuss our conversation with anyone. You’re not off the hook here, Knox. Even if everything you say checks out, I can still charge you with withholding information and hindering an investigation.’
Steed crossed the room, and pulled the door open. ‘Go on.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. ‘And remember what I said: don’t mention this to anyone—especially Mr Blair.’
Lewis Knox stood slowly, his eyes darting between the detective and the policewoman, then he scuttled around the table and out the door.
Constable Connor stood, smoothed down her skirt and looked at Detective Steed. ‘Don’t try to leave town, sir?’
The corner of Steed’s mouth twitched. ‘It had the desired effect, Constable.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I’m going to phone Terence Blair and ask him to come down here immediately.’
‘What if he refuses?’
‘If he refuses, I’ll offer to send around a couple of uniforms in a marked car to collect him.’
When Peregrine stepped from the elevator, Joyce Hirsch was still behind her desk, but the typewriter was covered and her handbag and gloves were lined up on the edge of the blotter, ready to go.
‘Oh, Mrs Hirsch—I’m glad I caught you!’ Peregrine hurried across the thick carpet, already pulling out the orange wig and giving it a shake.
The older woman glanced pointedly at a clock mounted above the bank of filing cabinets. ‘Is it something urgent? I was just on my way.’ Joyce Hirsch emphasised her words by pulling on her coat.
‘Well, it is, rather, but it should only take a moment.’ Peregrine put a pleading note in her voice.
Mrs Hirsch hesitated, her hand hovering near the switch of her desk lamp. Then she sighed. ‘All right then, but I’ve only got a few minutes to spare. If I miss my train, then I won’t make the connection, and it’s dreadfully inconvenient.’
‘Thank you! I need to know who ordered this wig.’ Peregrine held it out for Mrs Hirsch’s benefit. ‘I’ve checked with the girls in the hair salon and it didn’t go through their books. You can see what a mess it is.’ She shook the chopped mop. ‘Definitely not good enough to be seen on the shop floor of Blair’s!’ Peregrine was banking on the idea that Mrs Hirsch wanted to get home and wouldn’t want to hear an elaborate story about an irate customer.
Just Murdered Page 20